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BY 

CLARA G. BRF.NN A N 








Published In The Stafford Press Co., Cleveland, Ohio 











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& Htttle Creasurp 
of -poem ^Letters 

Written to Soldiers and 
Sailors during tke 
World War 

BY 

CLARA G. BRENNAN 


Published by The Stratford Press Co., Cleveland, Ohio 




COPYRIGHTED 1919 
BY 

CLARA G. BRENNAN 



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Dedicated to the Memory 

of 

Private Thomas J. Collins , 
Company H, 11th Infantry, 28th Division. 
Killed in action 
September 27th, 1918. 


3#tU at t rurr fargrt fyam ror arat tljrm anmu 
®a iaaarr fatarr gran* far ttjr babra af tabay ? 

ICrt tljr atara br talb, a brar ntrmarg ta krry 

lla tl)r ltrarta af tffrar babra, af aar Ijrrara utlja alrrp. 


—Clara G. Brennan 


A Tribute to Our American Soldiers 

December 20, 1917. 

(From the Women at Home) 

O! men of our country, we give you “three cheers,” 
Every soldier selected and brave volunteers, 

And we want you to know that we’re with you each 
day 

In the thick of the fight, in the midst of the fray. 


We are working with you, and our work will not cease 
Till the victory is ours and the world is at peace. 

We are with you in heart, we are with you in soul, 
We’ll be with you in mind at the glorious goal. 

O! brothers and sweethearts. O! fathers and sons, 
There’s a cry in our hearts and it’s “Down with the 
Huns.” 

’Tis the song that we sing as we sew and we knit, 
And it rings in our ears while we’re doing our bit. 


And we bid you be brave, though our hearts almost 
break, 

There are tears from our eyes on the bandage we 
make; 

But we’ll banish our tears and put sorrow to flight. 
For there’s work to be done in this wonderful fight. 


May our Father in heaven reach out His kind hand 
And protect you “brave men” of our peace-loving 
land; 

May He watch you each day from His altar above, 
And return you at length to the people you love. 

Clara G. Brennan. 


(Permission of The Cleveland Press) 


Corp . Edward Brennan, 
Co. I, 331st Infantry, 

A. E. F. 


Cleveland, Ohio, 
June 24, 1918. 


Dear Cousin Ed: 

Just received your card this morning, 
And it set our hearts at ease 

For to know that you and others 
Landed safely overseas. 

And I telephoned your mother, 

For she hadn’t heard as yet; 

Also told the joyful tidings 
To the other folks I met. 

Now, I won’t expect an answer, 

For I know you haven’t time; 

But you bet I won’t forget you 

When Fm writing home-made rhyme. 

For you represent the “Brennans” 

In the battle “over there”; 

So it’s up to us in Cleveland 
For to do our little share. 

Tell the fellows who are with you 
That they needn’t worry much, 

That the home folks will forget them 
While they’re calling on the Dutch. 

For ’twould make you fellows happy, 
And would fill your hearts with cheer, 

Could you hear the praise you’re getting 
From the people over here. 

I am going to give this message 
To our Uncle Sam at home, 

And I know that he will send it 
To my cousin o’er the foam. 

For he always sends the letters 
To our nation’s gallant sons 

If he isn’t interrupted 

By those beastly, murdering Huns. 

If you’re fond of home-made “poultry,” 
Why, I’ll write you yards and yards. 

Tell the boys from old Ohio 
That we send our best regards. 


Now, I surely hope this finds you 
Feeling very, very well; 

And I’ll say goodbye till later, 

For there’s nothing new to tell. 

Your loving cousin, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


Corporal Edward Brennan, Cleveland, Ohio, 

Co. I, 331st Infantry, January 6, 19/9. 

A. E. F. 

Dear Cousin Ed.: 

Thought I’d drop you a line. All the folks are just fine, 
And they’re sending best wishes and love. 

It is Sunday, I’m home, and am writing this poem 
Just to square myself on the above. 

Now, my dear Cousin Ed, let it always be said 
That the object was simply to cheer 
When this poor Cleveland pote said, in typewritten note, 
That you wouldn’t be home for a year. 

Now, I felt it was best not to cause you unrest 
And a longing that comes when you roam, 

For I knew ’twould be long ’ere that big soldier throng 
Could be really all started for home. 

So I hope I am square on this sad, sad affair, 

And am asking your pardon, you see. 

There is no one on earth who’ll be more filled with 
mirth 

At the news of your coming than me. 

If they’ll let me, by heck, I’ll be right near the deck 
When you land on some glorious day. 

I will make a big noise, shout “Hurrah for you boys, 
Welcome back to the good U. S. A.” 

Now, I’ll end up this verse, cause it’s getting much 
worse, 

And you might think I’m losing my mind. 

With high honors galore, may you soon reach our 
shore; 

But, please, leave all your cooties behind. 

Your loving cousin, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


9 



My Bit 


Cleveland, Ohio, 
December 12, ipi/. 


I want to do a tiny “bit” 

To help in this great war, 

And so I’ve formed a sort of club 
Of soldiers, numbering four. 

At knitting socks I am not good, 

Nor can I be a nurse; 

But one thing that I love to do 
Is manufacture verse. 

I’ve pledged myself, till victory comes, 

To scribble “home-made” poem 

To these four lads, who for the cause 
Left pleasure, friends and home. 

And if this verse can bring a smile 
Or gladden one sad heart 

I’ll feel that in this fight of ours 
I’ve played a little part. 

Now, Corporal Max, a Cleveland friend, 

Is down at Alabam’. 

He’s working hard with heart and soul 
For our old Uncle Sam. 

There’s Charles McMullen, postal clerk, 

In service at Camp Greene. 

Lieutenant Baehr at Sherman Camp, 
Whom I have never seen. 

And one lad left his northern home 
To train on southern soil, 

At Nicholls Camp in New Orleans— 

His name is Fred Guilfoyle. 

I’m glad that they are friends of mine, 
And give them all “three cheers.” 

There are no finer in the land 
Than these four “volunteers.” 

Clara G. Brennan. 


10 


Corp. Max Goldberg, Cleveland, Ohio, 

Supply Co., 135th Field Artillery, October 10, 1917. 

Camp Sheridan, Montgomery, Ala. 

Dear Friend Max: 

I thought you’d like to get some word 
From all the folks at home, 

And so I’m sending free of charge 
One yard of home-made poem. 

We’re sending you a box today, 

Some real good things to eat, 

A gift from friends you left behind, 

A little Irish treat. 

The home-made cake of Mrs. Mack’s 
Will touch the spot, I know. 

She made it just for you alone, 

Her friendship for to show. 

And Lena sends the cigarettes, 

She thought you’d like this brand; 

The jelly is from Sister Ann, 

Who made it all by hand. 

Now, when you eat that maple fudge 
I hope you won’t get sick; 

It’s just a token of regard 
From this poor Irish Mick. 

I have a feeling rather queer 
That cake and jell will smash 

And that the fudge and cigarettes 
Will form a sort of hash. 

I’d like to ask a favor now: 

When you go “over there” 

I wish you’d send to us at home 
A lock of William’s hair. 

We’ll place this ringlet on the floor 
And ’round it we will waltz, 

And say the meanest things we know 
About that gink so false. 

I hope you’ll send a line to us 
Whenever you find time. 

With kind regards from all the folks, 

I’ll close this little rhyme. 

Sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


11 


Max, the Mule-Tamer 


Corp. Max Goldberg, Cleveland, Ohio, 

Supply Co., 135th Field Artillery, December 2, 1917. 
Camp Sheridan, Montgomery, Ala. 

I’m going to tell you a little tale, 

A tale quite sad to hear, 

’Twill cause your heart to throb with pain 
And make you shed a tear. 

I have a friend whose name is Max, 

A soldier boy is he; 

A Corporal, too, at Sheridan Camp, 

With the Field Artillery. 

Now, when in service every man 
Must learn to work with tools 

And do odd jobs—he’s never done— 

For instance, taming mules. 

And this is where the sad part comes. 

Now, folks, it would be wise 

For you to have a ’kerchief out 
To mop your tear-dimmed eyes. 

Now, down at dear old Sheridan Camp 
They have a balky mule; 

It will not work and takes delight 
In breaking every rule. 

And so the Captain sent a call 
And promised a big feast 

To any man who could but tame 
This slow and stubborn beast. 

’Twas Corporal Max, our hero brave 
Who answered to the call. 

He coaxed the mule with soothing words 
To leave its little stall. 

The mule obeyed reluctantly, 

With slow and ■ faltering step. 

You’d swear that blamed old Army mule 
Was minus speed and pep. 

But when our hero climbed its back 
The Johnny-horse got sore, 

And Max gave up his job to join 
The Aviation Corps. 

* * * * 


12 


When Tamer Max came back to earth 
And awakened from his trance, 

He thought he’d been transferred by night 
To scenes “somewhere in France.” 

I think our history should contain 
One paragraph at least 
About this brave Ohio lad 

Who tamed the stubborn beast. 

Clara G. Brennan. 


Corporal Max Goldberg, Cleveland, Ohio, 

Supply Co., 135th Field Artillery, July 3, 1918. 

A. E. F. 

Dear Friend Max: 

Thought you’d like some home-made “poultry,” 
So I’ll write a verse or two, 

And I surely hope this letter 
Won’t be long in reaching you. 

For the sending isn’t easy, 

Like it was at Alabam’; 

But I’ll give it in the keeping 
Of our dear old Uncle Sam. 

If a bit of verse will help you, 

Why, I’ll write you yards and yards. 

Tell the boys from old Ohio 
That I send my best regards. 

Also, tell our boys from Cleveland 
That they needn’t worry much 

That their sweethearts will forsake them 
While they’re calling on the Dutch. 

For I’ve listened to their ravings 
On the cars and when I walk, 

And ’twould make the boys feel happy 
Could they hear their line of talk. 

For ’tis all of “Bill” or “Charley,” 

Who has lately crossed the foam; 

Never Tom or Dick or Harry, 

Who is lingering here at home. 


13 



And there’s something I must tell you— 

It’s a sort of silly speel— 

But I’ve got a pair of slippers 
And they’ve got a REAL FLAT HEEL. 

Now that I’ve been walking in them, 

I must sure admit they’re nice ; 

And I thank you, DOCTOR GOLDBERG, 

For your bit of good advice. 

And I hope you’re not forgetting, 

Now that you are “over there,” 

That you promised you would send me 
Just a lock of “William’s” hair. 

Now, some folks will want the carcass, 

But I will not make a fuss 
If you’ll simply send a ringlet 
From the head of that old cuss. 

When the censor reads this letter 
He will get a shock, I fear, 

At the awful slang expressions 
Of a lady “over here.” 

But if he’s a Yankee soldier 
He will surely understand 
That the language I am using 
Is the language of our land. 

So I hope he’ll overlook it, 

For I surely would feel blue 
If I thought he’d spoil this “poultry” 

Which I’ve written here for you. 

Now, I’ll say “Goodbye” till later. 

Be as happy as you can 
Till you’re back again in Cleveland 
With the little Irish “clan.” 

Sincerely your friend, 
Clara G. Brennan. 


14 


Albert M. Baehr 
(Alias Uncle Sam), 


Cleveland, Ohio, 
July 16, 1917. 


Officers' Training Camp, 

Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indianapolis, hid. 

Dear Uncle Sam: 

I read your ad the other night 
For candy that’s home-made, 

And so I’m sending you a box 
By parcel post prepaid. 

The box of sweets which I have sent 
Is of the smallest size, 

But it is just for you to try, 

And not to win a prize. 

I cannot sew on soldier’s shirts, 

Nor have I learned to knit. 

But if it’s candy that you want, 

You bet I’ll do my bit. 

If home-made candy plays a part 
In helping men to fight, 

Why, say, I’d just be mighty glad 
To make some every night. 

I hope you’ll pass this package on 
To some good candy judge, 

And let me know just how you like 
This batch of home-made fudge. 

My kind regards to all at camp, 

And hopes for speedy peace. 

Dear Uncle Sam, I’ll always be 
“Your loving Cleveland niece.” 


(Miss) Clara G. Brennan. 


is 


Albert M. Baehr, 
(Alias Uncle Sam), 


Cleveland, Ohio, 
July si, I 9 I 7 • 


Officers’ Training Camp, 

Fort Benj. Harrison, Indianapolis, Ind. 

Dear Uncle Sam, your welcome note 
Arrived the other day. 

Was glad to hear that you received 
That box of sweets O. K. 

I hasten to send on some more 
For fear you might retreat. 

You said the fight was leaving you 
For want of something sweet. 

I’m sorry I can’t knit some socks 
Or be a Red Cross nurse; 

But somehow I can’t make a thing 
But maple fudge and VERSE. 

But if these two will help you out 
I’ll give them with a will 

If in return you’ll go across 
And whip old Kaiser Bill. 

I’d like to ask a question now 
About your Camp Fort Ben.: 

Just how do you divide that fudge 
Among so many men? 

Dear Uncle Sam, please watch the mail, 
You’d better have a care; 

For I’m afraid the sweets I send 
Are eaten by A. Baehr (bear). 

But bears are nice in times of war— 
Not big, black shiny ones— 

But those with suits of khaki cloth 
Who carry swords and guns. 

Three cheers for all the boys who fight 
For our Red, White and Blue; 

And now goodbye, dear Uncle Sam, 
I’ll always be for you. 


Your Cleveland Niece, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


16 


Albert M. Baehr 
(Alius Uncle Sam) 


Cleveland, O., 
August 8, 1917. 


Officers' Training Camp, 

Fort Benj. Harris on, Indianapolis, Ind. 

Dear Uncle Sam: 

Received your letter of the third, 

Enjoyed its contents too; 

I’m glad you passed that fudge around 
To “Self-selected few.” 

I’m sorry you are breaking camp 
And all are going home; 

I’ll surely miss that little job 
Of making fudge and poem. 

But, on the other hand, I’m glad, 

For even to a bear (Baehr) 

There’s no place just like Home, Sweet Home, 
However bright and fair. 

I did not count the minutes spent, 

Nor did I mind the heat, 

When I was making maple fudge 
For Uncle’s boys to eat. 

And now I’ll have to say goodbye, 

Best wishes to you all. 

I hope we’ll see this world at peace 
Before the coming fall. 


Clara G. Brennan. 


Cleveland, O., 
November 3, 1917. 


Albert M. Baehr 
(Alias Uncle Sam), 


Officers' Training Camp, 

Fort Benj. Harrison, Indianapolis, Ind. 

Dear Uncle Sam: 

Received your letter yesterday, 

It surely struck me right, 
Especially where you told the tale 
About the mud-ball fight. 

I started out to write to you 
A letter most sublime, 

But somehow it don’t sound just right; 
I long to make it rhyme. 


17 



And so I’m going to write in verse 
This note I send to you. 

I hope you’ll like the color-scheme 
Of old Red, White and Blue. 

But this time I will weigh each word 
And leave out every “slam” 

To prove that I’m a real true niece 
Of dear old Uncle Sam. 

Excuse me please for being dense, 

But I received a shock 

When you said you did this and that 
At twenty-four o’clock. 

I’ve heard of central standard time 
And time of every sort, 

But what on earth is that queer time 
You’re keeping at the Fort? 

I do wish something would turn up 
To end this awful war, 

And that affairs would be the same 
As in the days of yore. 

For instance, now, the other night 
We hadn’t any meat. 

I guess my mother signed a pledge 
That we would cease to eat. 

But still I know we’ve got to save 
For soldiers who must fight 

To show those Germans over there 
That Uncle Sam is right. 

And now goodbye, I’ll have to close 
For lack of space and time. 

With hopes of hearing from you soon 
I’ll end this little rhyme. 

Clara G. Brennan. 


18 


Albert M. Baehr, Cleveland, Ohio, 

(Alias Uncle Sam), October io, 1917. 

Fort Benj. Harrison, Indianapolis, Ind. 

Dear Uncle Sam: 

I don’t think I can write much verse, 

For, Uncle, don’t you see, 

I’ve just returned from that West Side, 

Where Germans butchered me (German Hospital). 

They fed me ether by the quart 
Until I felt quite sick; 

And then, no doubt, they had a laugh 
On this poor Irish Mick. 

For after they gave me the dope 
I can’t remember much, 

Except that I woke up in bed 
Surrounded by the Dutch. 

While I had slept they sawed my bone, 

A souvenir to keep. 

It’s strange the things that they can do 
While we are fast asleep. 

And now sometimes when I walk ’round, 

My pulse-beats almost cease. 

I think I see you drop a tear 
Of pity for your niece. 

I liked the outline which you gave 
Of camp life at the Fort; 

’Twas perfect in its every word, 

Just like a real report. 

I hope you’ll tell me still more news 
When you write me again 

About the stunts and things you do 
Down at your Camp Fort Ben. 

I’d like to ask a question now, 

A question just and fair: 

What is your title, Capt. or Lieut., 

Or just plain Soldier Baehr? 

And now I’ll close, dear Uncle Sam; 

Will write you more next time. 

When I feel like myself again 
I’ll be chuck full of rhyme. 

Your Cleveland Niece, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


19 


Cleveland, Ohio, 
November io, ipi8. 


Lieut. Albert M. Baehr, 

(Alias Uncle Sam), 

84th Division, 

A. E. F. in France. 

My Dear Uncle Sam: 

It has been a long time since I’ve sent you a rhyme— 
Why, I’ve really forgotten the date; 

But I’ll have to confess that I lost your address, 
That’s the reason this note is so late. 


For I surely enjoyed all the time I employed 
Writing “poultry” for you at Fort Ben. 

There is nothing too grand for the boys of our land, 
And I’d do it all over again. 


Now I hope you have health, ’tis far better than 
wealth— 

That’s a fact that we all will admit. 

Though the latter, I’ll say, never traveled my way, 
But I’m happy in doing my “bit.” 


The election is o’er and some people are sore, 
Now, I really don’t know who’s at fault; 

But the state has gone dry, so I guess it’s goodbye 
To “Budweiser” and “Duffy’s Pure Malt.” 


But, as most people say, it is better away, 

And the loss of it don’t bother me; 

For it’s useless I think, and when I want a drink, 
Well, my speed is a cup of good tea. 


And it sure seems to me that the poor G. O. P. 

Must have felt like a wiggley worm, 

For it struck them like rocks when they heard Jimmy 
Cox 

Was elected to serve a new term. 


But I never did mix in this game politics, 

So upon it I do not comment; 

I just work every day and I earn enough pay 
For to cover my food and my rent. 


20 


Let me think what is new—Oh, this town had the 
“flu,” 

And it wasn’t so funny at that. 

It just looked like a “trick,” for so many were sick— 
Why, we had it right here in our flat. 


There’s a story that’s told, it’s a story that’s old, 

And of rumors I always beware; 

But a great many say that there will be, SOME DAY, 
A NEW DEPOT—built down on the square. 


Now it’s ten-fifty-two, so it’s good night to you; 

All our family are sleeping in peace. 

So I’ll end up this pome. “May you soon be back 
home,” 

That’s the sincere good wish of “Your Niece.” 

P. S.—When we came down to the office this 
A. M. we were told to go home—the WAR is over. 
“THREE CHEERS” for our boys. 

Clara G. Brennan. 


21 


Long Way To Alabama 

(Dedicated to the 37th Division, Camp Sheridan, 
Montgomery, Ala., November 4, 1917.) 

(To the tune of Tipperary.) 

Down in Alabama, where the cotton blossoms grow, 
There are scores of soldier boys a-working hard, we 
know, 

Getting up a lot of steam to show old Kaiser Bill 
That when they cross the briny sea he’s going to get 
his fill. 


Chorus 

It’s a long way to Alabama, it’s a long way to go; 
It’s a long way to Alabama, to the finest boys we 
know; 

Good-by, Kaiser Billy, you’ll be minus hair 
When the boys from dear old Alabama 
All land over there. 


When the Germans pestered us with all their mocks 
and jeers, 

Dear old Uncle Sammy sent a call for volunteers 
For the sake of justice and to cause the kaiser’s fall. 
It was the boys at Alabam who answered to the call. 


Down to Alabama gifts and letters we will send 
To the boys who volunteered our honor to defend. 
When the war is over and they come back home to 
stay 

We’ll give them all a welcome that will drive their 
cares away. 


Clara G. Brennan. 
(Permission of The Cleveland Press) 


22 


Private William J. McManus, Cleveland, O., 

Headquarters Co., January 14, 1918. 

322nd Machine Gun Bn., 

Camp Sherman, Chillicothe, Ohio. 

Dear Billie McManus: We’re writing this note, 
And hope it will reach you O. K. 

We’re writing to tell you to watch for a box 
Which we’re going to send you today. 


A rumor went round that you wanted some FUDGE. 

We are friends, and, to tell you the truth, 

It was sure our desire to grant your request 
And supply your neglected sweet-tooth. 


But sugar, you know, is as scarce as hen’s teeth— 
Now, I’m sure that this tale don’t sound real— 

But as true as we live, with each pound that we buy 
We’re obliged to buy two of cornmeal. 


Now, we don’t harbor CHICKENS at our domicile, 
So a use for the meal is not found. 

We use up the sugar as fast as it comes, 

But the cornmeal just stacks all around. 


So in future, dear Bill, when you send home for fudge, 
This hint we would like you to take: 

That with each box of candy we send down to you 
You will also get ONE JOHNNY-CAKE. 

Sincerely, 


Clara G. Brennan. 


Private William J. McManus, Cleveland, O., 

Headquarters Co., October 15, 1918. 

322nd Machine Gun Bn., 

“Over There.” 

Dear Billy McManus, I’m writin’ a line, 

And I want to be sayin’ the folks are all fine. 

Now, I hope this short letter will find you O. K., 
Then I want you to listen to what I will say. 


Now, I hope this epistle won’t cause you alarm, 

And your delicate feelin’s I don’t wish to harm; 

But the tears from our eyes simply dropped with a 
splash 

When your picture arrived—a la little mustache. 


When we first saw your face I just thought we would 
drop. 

Why, say! honest to goodness, you look like a “Wop,” 
Like a “Hunkie” just landed on some foreign ship, 
With that little “soup-strainer” you’ve got on your lip. 


Now, of all the good deeds that you’ve done in your 
life, 

’Twould be greatest of all if you’d look for a knife, 
Or a scissors might do, or a safety blade. 

If you can’t do the job, why, just holler for aid. 


For the folks here at home think it quite a disgrace 
That a nice chap like you should go spoilin’ his face. 
And your girls—why, say, Bill, they just looked their 
disgust. 

I am sure that their love is beginning to rust. 


With my kindest regards I will end up this poem. 
Now, just take the advice of a friend here at home: 
’Ere you bring yourself back to this good U. S. A., 
Just remove that mustache, and remove it today. 

Sincerely your friend, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


24 


Art. L. Ossman, Cleveland, Ohio, 

ist Division, June 20, 1918. 

3rd Machine Gun Battalion, A. E. F. 

Dear Friend Art: 

First of all, I want to tell you 
That your girl is all O. K., 

But, of course, she’s mighty lonesome 
Since her “Art” has gone away. 


But you fellows needn’t worry, 
While you’re fighting “over there,” 
That the girls you left behind you 
Will be anything but fair. 


We are having dandy weather; 

It is nice and cool today; 

But, no doubt, July and August 
Will bring lots of heat our way. 


Florence was over Wednesday evening— 
We were both chuck full of talk— 

And we picked the shores of Erie 
As the finest place to walk. 

And I’m going to be her “Steady,” 

So she never will feel blue, 

Till you come back home to Cleveland 
With your little “Parley Vou.” 

But there’s one thing I must tell you, 

And I hope you’ll take the tip: 

For the love of Mike don’t ever 
Grow a mustache on your lip. 

’Cause I know that Florence don’t like ’em 
And she’d probably feel quite bad, 

So I wouldn’t raise an “eyebrow,” 

Even though it is the fad. 

Now, I’ll bet when you have finished 
Reading all this home-made poem 

You will probably think the writer 
Must be dippy in the dome. 


25 


And the slang will probably shock you, 
But at that I’ll bet you’ll say 
That you recognize the language 
Of the good old U. S. A. 

Once again I want to tell you 
That I know you’ll always find 
That you’ve got a “pal” worth having 
In the girl you left behind. 

Now, I’m going to close this letter, 

For there’s nothing more to tell, 

And I surely hope it finds you 
Feeling very, very well. 

Sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


Art L. Ossman, Cleveland, Ohio, 

1st Division, August 20, 1918. 

3rd Machine Gun Battalion, A. E. F. 

Dear Friend Art: 

Well, I’m here again with “Poultry”— 

That’s a middle name of mine. 

I’m just punk at writing letters, 

But I love to scribble rhyme. 

Now, there isn’t much to tell you— 

Not much gossip, so to speak. 

I am still your lady’s “steady,” 

And I call on her each week. 

And I know she’s glad to see me, 

But I have a feeling queer 

That she’d fire me like lightning 
If her Arthur should appear. 

For it’s only right and natural 
That a girl should want her lad ; 

But I’ll do my best to fill in, 

So she will not feel so bad. 


26 



Gee, it surely makes us heart-sick, 
And we hardly think it fair, 

That we can’t send fudge and cookies 
Since you’ve left for “over there.” 


But our dear old Uncle Sammy 
Knows a whole lot more than we, 
So we’ll be content with writing 
Till again you cross the sea. 


Tell your friends more troops are coming, 
For we hear diem go each night, 

And they’ll soon be there to join you 
In a cause that’s just and right. 


Please don’t think that we forget you 
Just because you’re far away. 

Every other word is “Sammy”— 
You’re the topic of the day. 


Here at home we wait in silence— 
Nothing else that we can do. 
We could never pay in centuries 
This great debt we owe to you. 


Once again I want to tell you 
That I’ll try and do my part; 
Though I’m only Clara Brennan, 
And, of course, I can’t be “Art.” 


Now, I hope you’re not forgetting 
What I told you once before: 
That you must not have a mustache 
When you land on U. S. shore. 


Guess I’ll end this long epistle, 
’Cause the paper’s at an end. 
Hope you’re feeling well and happy. 
Best regards to you I send. 

Sincerely, 


27 


Clara G. Brennan. 


Private Tom Cowie, 
332nd Infantry, 

A. E. F. 


Cleveland, Ohio, 
July 12, 1918. 


Dear Friend Tom: 

Thought you’d like to have a message 
From the neighborhood at home, 
So I’ll just proceed to write you 
Several lines of home-made pome. 


All your folks are well and happy, 

And are feeling quite at ease, 

For they’ve heard that you and others 
Landed safely overseas. 

And your mother watches daily, 

While your father waits with care 
For the mail to bring a letter 
From their soldier “over there.” 

Now, about your Nephew Tommy— 
He’s the family pride and joy, 

And I know if you could see him 
You would say, “He’s sure some boy.” 

Gee, it keeps us busy wondering 

Since you’ve crossed the briny foam 
Whereabouts you’ve really landed, 

Just how far you are from home. 

We have pictured you in London 
Gazing at the foggy sky 
With a monocle—O horrors!— 

Tucked securely in one eye. 

Then again we’ve sort of reasoned, 

For, you know, there is a chance 
That you’ve crossed the English Channel 
And are now “Somewhere in France.” 


France or England seem more like it— 
Nothing’s sure in this turmoil. 

You may be this very moment 
Standing on Italian soil. 


28 


Here we see you rubbing elbows 
With a curly-headed “Wop,” 

Eating yards of rich spaghetti 
In a small Italian shop. 

Now, there’s nothing new in Glenville, 

So there isn’t much to tell; 

And I hope this yard of “Poultry” 

Finds you very, very well. 

Your next-door neighbor, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


Private Tom Cozuie, Cleveland, Ohio, 

132nd Regiment Infantry, August 20, 1918. 

A. E. F. 

Dear Friend Tom: 

Now, I’ll start right out by saying 
That your folks are all real well, 

Then I’ll search my Irish garret 
For some bits of news to tell. 

It is lonesome here in Cleveland 
Since you boys have gone to fight, 

But you bet we don’t forget you 
Just because you’re out of sight. 

For there’s something that we owe you, 

It’s a debt we can’t repay; 

For ’twas all for us, your people, 

That you had to go away. 

So we sure would be ungrateful 
If we’d drive you from our mind. 

You’re the love, the hope, the savers 
Of the folks you left behind. 

Now that sounds like Bible language, 

But at that each word is true; 

It expresses just the feeling 

Of the Yanks at home for you. 


29 



For if our old Uncle Sammy 
Had but waited one more year— 
Well, perhaps I’d not be writing, 
For Fd probably not be here. 


Tell your friends more troops are coming, 
For we hear them on their way; 

There are many loaded troop-trains 
Passing by our street each day. 


And we wave our ’kerchiefs at them— 
Nothing else that we can do. 
Though to us they’re perfect strangers, 
But they make us think of you. 


Hope you’re feeling fine and dandy; 

Best regards to you I send. 

Guess I’ll close this long epistle, 

For my paper’s at an end. 

Sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


30 


Our Bit 


(To the Boys at Camp Greene Post Office) 
Camp Greene, Charlotte, N. C. 

Charles McMullen, Cleveland, Ohio, 

Post Office, Camp Greene, June 5, 1918. 

Charlotte, N. C. 

(Tune of Tramp, Tramp, Tramp the Boys Are 
Marching.) 

In the office here we sit, wondering if we’ve done our 
“bit” 

As we think of what is happening “over there.” 
But we’re startled from our seat by the sound of 
marching feet, 

And we know the time has come to do our share. 
Chorus 

Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching; 

Mail-time makes them all feel gay. 

And it fills our hearts with joy, as we hand each 
soldier-boy 

Just a token from a loved one far away. 

Second Verse 

Often we feel sort of bad cause we are not khaki-clad, 
And we long to join our fellows in the fight; 

But the boys we must not fail, for they look to us for 
mail, 

So we’ll stay and work for them with all our might. 
My Verse 

Postal Clerks at old Camp Greene, most of you I’ve 
never seen, 

But I’d like to shake the hand of every one, 

And I want to say to you that you’re just as staunch 
and true 

As the soldier with the uniform and gun. 

Clara G. Brennan. 


31 


Sergt. William Dally, Jr., Cleveland, Ohio, 

Mess Sergeant, Supply Co., November 2J, 1918. 

133th Field Artillery, A. E. F. 

Dear Friend: 

No doubt you’ll be a bit surprised 
When you receive this note, 

But hope you’ll pardon awful nerve 
Of this poor Cleveland pote. 


But somehow I just had to write 
And tell you how I feel, 

And to your kind and generous heart (Blarney) 
I surely do appeal. 

Right in your oufit there’s a lad 

Whom Cleveland friends call “Max.” 

I wish you’d call on him some night 
With scythe or else an axe. 


Now don’t be cruel, just gentle-like, 
But get a real good grip, 

And then with one almighty sweep 
Clean off his upper lip (mustache). 


When all our boys are mustered out 
And draw their final pay 
I’ll be the first to get in line 
When you come Euclid way. 


And I’ll be glad to welcome Max; 

His smiling face I miss. 

But, honest now, would you be glad 
To meet a face like this? 


So help me out, for goodness’ sake, 

That’s all I ask of you; 

And all my life I swear to be 
A friend most tried and true. 

Yours sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


32 


William Dally, Jr., Cleveland, Ohio, 

Mess Sergeant, Supply Co., March I’j, 1919. 

135th Field Artillery, A. E. F. 

Dear Friend Bill: 

I love the country of my birth, 

The good old U. S. A.; 

But there’s enough of “Mick” in me 
To keep St. Patrick’s Day. 

Sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


33 


Corporal Harry Schaub, Cleveland, Ohio, 

Q. M. C. Sales Comntissary, , July 22, 1919. 

Unit No. 24, A. S. S. O. S. 


Dear Friend: 

Now, you may not care for “Poultry,” 
But I’ll have to take a chance, 

For I really can’t consult you, 

Now that you have gone to France. 


For if I should write and ask you 
’Twould be wasting too much time; 

While a-waiting for your answer 
I’d forget the doggone rhyme. 

So I’ll take it all for granted 

That you’re fond of home-made pome, 

And will try my best to tell you 
Any news I know from home. 

All your folks are well and happy, 

For with them I often meet; 

I am not real well acquainted, 

But I live upon your street. 

We’ve been having splendid weather. 
Though it’s mighty warm today. 

Gee, it’s lonesome here in Cleveland 
Since you fellows went away. 

I was noticing last evening 
As I went along St. Clair 

That the store you had is vacant 
Since you left for “over there.” 

In the line of neighbor gossip 
There is really nothing new; 

Everything’s the same in Glenville, 

And on Ninety-ninth street, too. 

As we read the daily papers 
We are all puffed up with pride, 

For they tell of Yankee victories 
Over on the other side. 


34 


There is something I must tell you 
Just before I close this rhyme: 
We have got some girl conductors 
On the dear old St. Clair line. 


Now, I’ll have to close this letter 
’Ere my dope gets any worse, 

For the muse has gone and left me 
And he took with him my verse. 

Sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan. 
Died in France December 21, 1918. 


35 


Supply Co., 135th Field Artillery, 
A. E.F . 


Cleveland, O., 
August 5, 1918. 


Dear Friends: 

I’ve a kind word or two for the sailor in blue 
Who is ready to do or die; 

But I’ll have to admit that I’m stronger a bit 
For the 135th Supply. 

Now, some folks, of course, think a soldier on horse 
Makes a beautiful sight for the eye; 

But the Artillery looks the nicest to me 
With its 135th Supply. 

You’d perhaps like to know why this preference I 
show, 

So I’ll tell you the reason why. 

I’ve a song full of praise, as my voice I do raise, 
For the 135th Supply. 

In the very first place, with the finest of grace 
You enlisted, all glad to comply 
With the strict Army rules—why, you even TAMED 
MULES 

In the 135th Supply. 

There are reasons galore, and a few reasons more; 

To explain them I hardly will try; 

But you bet I’m with you and I’ll be through and 
through 

For the 135th Supply. 

O! we hope ’twill be soon, before many a moon, 

That you’ll travel on sea or in sky. 

Then we’ll give a glad hand to the best in the land, 
’Tis the 135th Supply. 


All you “lads” we esteem, for ’tis no idle dream 
That you’ve worked without murmur or sigh; 

So I wish you “much joy,” every “khaki-clad” boy 
Of the 135th Supply. 

Your sincere friend 
To the very end, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


36 


I 35 th Field Artillery, 
A. E. F. 

Dear Friends: 


Cleveland, Ohio, 
August 9, 1918. 


Just one year ago this evening 
I enjoyed a dandy time. 

I remember real distinctly 

That the date was August nine. 

And the place you will remember 
It was out Hough avenue way; 

We were entertained most highly 
By the Second O. F. A. 

Gee, the music sure was dandy 
And the stunts you did were great. 

I arrived there very early, 

And I didn’t leave till late. 

Now I thank you for that evening 
And the other stunt nights, too. 

Just to show that I am grateful 
I would do as much for you. 

But I cannot turn a hand-spring 
And at other things I'd fall 

When it comes to singing, goodness! 
Haven’t any voice a’ tall. 

I’m not good at playing music 
Don’t know much about the time 

But—I might be sort of useful 

If you need some home-made rhyme. 

So I’ll be your company rhymster 
Till those Huns are all done brown 

And you all come marching homeward 
To your dear old native town. 

While at home the other evening 
I was filled with great delight 

When I came across the program 
Which you handed out that night. 

And it brought back pleasant memories 
But it also brought a tear 

For we never dreamed that evening 
You’d be miles away this year. 


37 


And you bet I’ll keep that program 
Till the print fades from the page 
And the little paper leaflet 

Turn quite yellowish with age. 

I am sending my best wishes, 

Let us hope ’twill not be long 
Till you’ll all be back in Cleveland 
With your music and your song. 

Your friend, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


133th Field Artillery, Cleveland, Ohio, 

A . E. F. November 4, 1918. 

Dear friends: 

Well, I haven’t written “Poultry” 

Why, it’s such a long, long time 
That it’s really sort of doubtful 
Whether I could make a rhyme. 

Guess my friend the muse has left me 
So the job alone I’ll face 
Though there’s not an inspiration 
To be found around this place. 

But I promised I would write you 
Now an’ then, some bits of poem 
So I’ll try my best to tell you 
Any news I know from home. 

I have heard that you are sleeping 
In the old Chateau De-Cow (Barn) 

And I wish you peaceful slumbers 
In your beds up in the mow. 

When the paper came this morning 
Why, we almost threw a fit 
For the headlines told us plainly 
That the Austrians have quit. 

And ’twill not be long I’m thinking 
Till the Dutch will follow suit 
We are proud of all you fellows 
For your fighting has borne fruit. 


38 



And we’ll all be there to meet you 
On that grand and glorious day 
When you come in all your glory 
To the good old U. S. A. 

Now I’ll have to end this letter 
For the lack of space and time 
With my kindest wishes to you 
I will finish up this rhyme. 

Your Cleveland friend 

Clara G. Brennan. 


To the 135th Field Artillery Cleveland, Ohio. 

American Ex. Forces. January 10, 1919. 

Dear Friends: 

Thought I’d write you a poem, just a message from 
home 

For I know that you’ll need lots of mail. 

Till that glorious day, hope it’s not far away, 

When you’ll all be preparing to sail. 

We are having a storm, and it’s not quite so warm 
As it has been for several months past. 

But the sun has appeared, so we all feel quite cheered, 
For we know this cold weather won’t last. 

Now I’m trying to think as I dip in the ink 
What to tell you that’s New in this town, 

But I’ve racked my poor brain till it gives me a pain 
Guess I’ll just have to lay my pen down. 

O! I’ve something to tell—Bet you’ll say it’s just 
“swell” 

And I’m sure that you all will declare 
“It’s the best you have heard” when I send you this 
word— 

“A NEW DEPOT”—right down on the square. 

Bet you’ll all faint away, but of course I must say 
That it hasn’t been built there as yet. 

But the bill has gone through, so I guess it is true 
And I’m sure that they’re really “All Set.” 


39 



And it’s all very true, that this town had the “Flu” 
But we’re glad it is on the decrease, 

So if you’ve felt alarm lest your folks come to harm 
You can let all your worrying cease. 


Now that’s all that I know, things are running real 
slow, 

So I guess I will close for this time. 

If I find something new, I’ll be thinking of you 
And will send you some more home-made rhyme. 


With best wishes to you, I’ll be saying “Adieu” 

Let me tell you this while there’s a chance. 

You will get the “Glad hand” when you come to this 
land, 

But—Please leave all your “COOTIES” in France. 
Yours, for a “Speedy Return,” 

Clara G. Brennan. 


40 


Private Frank Cain, Cleveland, Ohio 

2 53 C°- I2 7 B }1 ' Military Police. February 28, 191Q. 
A. E. F. 

Dear Friend Frank: 

I know you always welcome news 

That comes from “Home Sweet Home” 

And so I’m sending you this note 
All written out in “Pome.” 


You may not care for Prose at all 
Or bits of “Home-made” verse, 

P>ut guess PH have to take a chance 
For better or for worse. 

I’ll start right out with cheerful news 
That all your folks are well 
And then will search my brain a bit 
For something new to tell. 


We’re having dandy weather here 
It’s nice and warm today 
And guess it won’t be very long 
Till Spring will come our way. 

Suppose your folks have written you 
The news, before this time 
That Bill McManus has arrived 
And surely does look fine. 


And from the news the papers give, 
On some near future day, 

The 83rd will all embark 
For Good Old U. S. A. 


Now if you’re sort of half inclined 
To feel the least bit blue. 

Just think of that “Most Glorious Day” 
And what it means to you. 

’Twill be the “Day of Days” for you 
A day of joy and bliss 
Just think of Dorothy on hand 
To give a welcome kiss. 


41 


And all your folks will be so glad 
And things will be so grand 
That you’ll forget in one short day 
You’ve ever left this land. 


I’ll say “goodbye” now don’t forget 
That home and love awaits 
For you, when you come sailing home 
To these UNITED STATES. 

Clara G. Brennan. 


42 


Pvt. Henry Bergen, 

Battery “C” nth Field Artillery, Cleveland, Ohio, 

A. E. F. Saturday, May iy, /p/p. 

Dear friend Henry: 

You’ll probably get an awful shock 
When you have read this through 
No doubt you’ll wonder what on earth 
Struck me, to write to you. 


Was out to see your folks one night 
We had a dandy time, 

And they requested me to write 
For you, some bits of rhyme. 


And though I’ve never really heard 
That you were fond of verse, 

I’ll scribble some and send it on 
For better or for worse. 


The weather here has been quite cool 
And sort of rainy too, 

You know, those days, the gloomy kind, 
That make a fellow blue. 

But now, today it’s not so bad, 

The sun is coming out, 

The grass and trees ’n’everything 
Have all begun to sprout. 

We had SOME time here, May the first 
The “Bolsheviks” went wild, 

I guess the Russian Anarchists 
Compared with these, were mild. 

They marched around the downtown streets 
With flags of red, by Heck! 

But—when the public finished up— 

They looked like one big wreck. 

The coppers’ clubs just simply flew 
And soldiers joined the fight, 

The streets were strewn with small red flags 
’Twas sure an awful sight. 


43 


I guess that bunch of crazy “Nuts'’ 
Have had their last parade. 
They’re now as meek as any lamb 
And keeping in the shade. 


I’ve just been wondering as I write 
If you recall the time, 

When I was proud that I could sing 
That song “Die Wacht Am Rhein?” 


But now I’ve changed my tune a bit 

When into song I burst, (Burst is right, Some voice 
I’ve got) 

And wish to sing a song of praise 
“America” comes first. 

You’ve traveled some, your mother says 
The sights you’ve seen were grand, 

But bet you’ll say there’s not one place 
As fine as Our Dear Land. 

And say, young man, do you recall 
That scar I’ve got to show 

Which you inflicted with a spade 
A long, long time ago? 

Well Henry, I’ve still got that scar 
It shines out white and plain, 

And mars the beauty of my brow 

Which fills my heart with pain. (How tragic). 

When I first got this tiny mark 
It brought forth floods of tears 

But now it just brings pleasant thoughts 
Of childhood’s happy years. 


And now that time is rather short 
And thoughts are very few 
I guess I’ll bring this to a close 
And say Goodbye to you. 

Sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan, 

648 East 99th Street, Cleveland, O. 


44 


James P. O'Connor, 
U. S. S. “New York. 


Cleveland, Ohio, 
February y, 1919 . 


Dear Jim: 

We thought you’d like a line or two 
From dear old Cleveland town, 

And any bits of news we know 
Will try and write them down. 

The weather we are having here 
Is really just divine. 

And all your relatives and friends 
Are feeling very fine. 

The “MOTHER” of the “FIGHTING THREE” 
Still sports the service pin, 

And forces men to give up seats 
It’s really just a sin. 


She’s just as good at baking pies 
As in the days of yore 
And makes a fellow eat and eat, 
Till he can eat no more. 


McManus’ are all OK. 

And happy too we’ll say 
For they have just received the news 
That Bill is on his way. 


The Cains are waiting patiently 
For word to come by mail 
And hope it gives the final date 
Of when their Frank will sail. 


When Nora said she’d heard from you 
We couldn’t help but smile 
Because we note you’ve had some word, 
From dear old EMERALD ISLE. 


We hope to see you very soon 
All puffed with joy and pride 
■ And on your arm you’ll probably have 
A little IRISH bride. 


45 


For DUBLIN maidens have a charm 
They’re noted for their grace. 

But—this applies without a doubt 
To all the IRISH race. 

We wish to send our best regards 
To all the “Gobs” in blue 

Who live aboard the old “New York” 

And sail each day with you. 

This paper isn’t very long 
And now it’s at an end 

I have to close our letter now 
Best Love to you I send. 

Sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


James P. O'Connor, Cleveland, Ohio, 

U. S. S. New York. March 28, 1919. 

Dear friend Jim: 

Well, here I am on earth again, 

I’ve had a case of “Flu” 

But feeling fairly good again 
And thought I’d write to you. 

For Nora says that all you “Gobs” 

Are fond of “Home-made Rhyme” 

And like to read these bits of verse 
To pass away the time. 

And so I take great pleasure now 
In scribbling several yards, 

To all on board the old New York 
I send my best regards. 

We want you all to bear in mind 
That while you sail the foam, 

There’s lots of patriotic folks 
Who think of you back home. 

For if we hadn’t had you lads 
To man the boats at sea, 

We never could have sent our troops 
To meet the enemy. 


46 



Your Cleveland folks are all O. K. 

The Cains and Frawleys too 
McManus’ and all the rest 
They send their love to you. 

Poor Nora, she has ditched the pin 
Which bore the three big stars, 

And doesn’t try that bluff of hers 
When she rides on the cars. 

Because you see it’s just like this 
She feels just like a loon 
Since Bill McManus has come back 
And Frank is coming soon. 

I guess we’ll take the matter up 
For something must be done, 

To buy this Queen of PIES and CAKES 
A Service Pin for ONE. (That’s you). 

What is this bit of news we hear 
It reached us way back home 
That someone threw some coal at you 

Which struck you on the DOME. (I never use 
slang). 

The Sailors on the old New York 
Are getting rough I fear, 

A-throwing coal around like that 
When it is scarce, and dear. 

O! Jim, before I close this note 
(Now this will make you smile) 

But say, how is your little girl 
Who hails from Emerald Isle? 

We feel a sort of interest here % 

And all await the day, 

When you’ll be coming with your Harp 
To Good Old U. S. A. 

Well guess I’ll have to close this note 
My paper’s at an end 
“Long Live The Gobs of the New York.” 

This greeting true I send. 

A Real True Niece of Our Uncle Sam, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


47 


James P. O’Connor, Cleveland, Ohio, 

U. S. Naval Hospital, July 18, 1919- 

Chelsea, Mass. 

Dear Friend Jim: 

It surely made us all feel good 
When Nora got your letter, 

And we are all inclined to think 
You must be somewhat better. 

This “poultry” finds your folks and ours 
All happy and all well 

And hope that when we hear from you 
You’ll have the same to tell. 

We hear you have a dandy nurse, 

Who treats you mighty square, 

And doesn’t stint her time a bit 
In giving you good care. 

She kept your folks informed each day 
Just how things were with you. 

I’d like to meet that nurse of yours, 

She’s what I call “true blue.” 

We had a car strike in this town, 

They made an awful fuss, 

And folks just had to ride to work 
In any kind of bus. 

You should have seen the boat I had, 

A Nineteen Hundred Ford; 

It rattled down old St. Clair line 
And played a lovely chord. 

I was the only girl on board, 

The rest were stately gents, 

Who very kindly helped me ofif; 

The ride cost Fifteen Cents. 

And now the “Hello” girls have struck, 

“More money,” is their text; 

A person feels like yelling out, 

“For pity’s, who’s next?” 

For with these strikes and strikers, too, 

It makes a person sick; 

You’d swear the whole United States 
Had turned to “Bolshevik.” 


48 


And so you think my wedding bells 
Are slow in peeling out, 

You keep a-asking all the time 
Just what I am about. 

The men are all so fickle now 
A girl just feels afraid, 

So I’ve concluded I will be 
A Skinny, Prim Old Maid. 

I’ll rent a cottage by the sea (Sounds good, eh?) 

Where inspirations dwell, 

And there I’ll scribble yards of verse, 

Who knows, the stuff might sell. 

But though I’m hardened just a bit 
And sort of on the shelf, 

I’d hate to think the whole blamed world 
Was feeling like myself. 

And so I wish you “Best of Luck,” 

And hope to hear real soon 
That you and your dear Irish Queen 
Are on your honeymoon. 

But save those salty shoes for me, 

I might just change my mind, 

If in this vale of sighs and tears 
A real good man I find. 

I’ll have to draw this to a close, 

It measures yards and yards, 

Your folks send dearest love to you 
And I send best regards. 

Just try to look real spry and bright 
When “Doc” and nurse are there, 

And then we’ll send that chocolate cake, 

Of which they’ll get a share. 

Now don’t you get the least bit blue, 

We’ll write from time to time, 

And keep you posted on the news 
By letters and by rhyme. 

Sincerely your friend, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


49 


James P. O’Connor, Cleveland, Ohio, 

U. S. Naval Hospital, July 21, 1919. 

Chelsea, Mass. 

Dear Friend Jim: 

Well, I thought it was time for some more “Home¬ 
made” rhyme 

So I got on the job right away. 

’Tis the lunch hour now, I have just had my “Chow” 
And will try hard to mail this today. 

There is not much to tell. All the folks here are well 
And we hope this will find you improved. 

We’ll be sure glad to hear, that you feel of good cheer 
And that all of the danger’s removed. 

It’s so hot in this town, you could bake doughnuts 
brown 

On the sidewalk right out in the street. 

I’ve got no more “Ambish” than a poor pickled fish, 
Sort of wabbly, you know, on my feet. 

Now for goodness sake, Jim, don’t be getting too slim, 
I’ll explain the real good reason why, 

Now I sure ought to know, a poor “Slim” has no 
show, 

For the fat man’s the popular guy. 

Nora’s waiting to bake that remarkable cake 
That’s a fact that I know to be true. 

It will start on its way on the very same day 
That she gets full permission from you. 

Well, I surely do hope that this fierce line of dope 
Won’t be making you weary and tired. 

If it does drop a note to this poor Cleveland “POTE” 
And she’ll simply consider she’s “Fired.” 

Gee! the time has gone quick, and this heat makes me 
sick, 

It has gone to my poor Irish Dome. 

So I can’t write no more, with best wishes galore, 

I will end up this slangy old pome. 

Sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


so 


Private Emmett Hamilton, 
4th Anti-Aircraft Battalion, 
A. E. F. 


Clevelayid, Ohio. 
September 5, 1918. 


Dear friend: 

I am not so very busy 

So I thought Td write a poem 
For I know you always welcome 
Little messages from home. 

Received your letter Wednesday 
And was very glad to hear 
That you’re feeling so much better 
And are filled with hope and cheer. 

All your folks are well and happy 
Or at least they look that way 
I am not real well acquainted. 

But I see them every day. 

We are having dandy weather 
It is nice and cool today 
Guess it won’t be long till winter 
And the snowflakes come our way. 

Gee, it’s lonesome here in Cleveland 
Since the boys have gone to fight 
But you bet we don’t forget them 
Just because they’re out of sight. 

For we surely would be selfish 

If we’d drive them from our mind 
They are on a sacred mission 
For the folks they left behind. 

Men are growing scarce in Cleveland 
That’s a fact we must confess 
Every morning on the street cars 
We can see there’s less and less. 

And we’re getting so we notice 
Every guy who walks the street 
We conclude he must be “Dippy” 

Or perhaps he’s got “Flat Feet.” 

Tell the soldiers who are with you 
Best regards to them I send 
Now I’ll have to close this letter 
For my paper’s at an end. 

Sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


51 


Private MeYle McLeod, Cleveland, Ohio, 

Battery “D” 135th Field Artillery, 

A. E. F. September 16, 1918. 


Dear friend: 

I received an invitation 

From your father here at home 
For to write his boy in service 
Several lines of home-made poem. 


And although Fve never met you 
At this task I must not fail 
Cause your father, goodness gracious 
He’s the man who brings our mail. 


And the man who brings the letters 
It is needless for to say 
All the folks at home will tell you 
He’s the Hero of the day. 

In these days of lonesome waiting 
There’s no fairer sight to meet 
Than a vision of the mailman 
As he travels up our street. 

You should see the people waiting 
For the mail, there’s one big mob 
And your father often tells us 
That he surely likes his job. 


When he hands a loving mother 
Just a message from her boy, 

Well, that grateful look she gives him 
Fills his heart with pride and joy. 


I’ve a friend whose name is Goldberg 
He’s a Corporal in “Supply” 

And I wish you’d stop and see him 
If you happen to pass by. 

I am sure he’d like to meet you 
Would be glad to shake your hand 
For ’tis good to meet with people 
Who are from your own dear land. 


52 


Now I’ll try my best to tell you 
Any bits of news I know 
Though at present things in Cleveland 
Well, they’re running sort of slow. 


Every day you boys are absent 
We just miss you more and more 
And of course we’re not as happy 
As we were in days of yore. 


But this war has brought us closer 
We have formed a sort of “Clan” 
And we “keep the home-fires burning” 
In the nicest way we can. 


Now I’ll have to end this letter 
For the lack of space and time 
With my very kindest wishes 
I will end this little rhyme. 

Yours for “Victory,” 

Clara G. Brennan. 


53 


Private George McGrath, Cleveland, Ohio, 

Ammunition Train, 3rd Army, May 24, ipip. 

A. E. F., in Germany. 

Dear friend: 

You are probably not familiar 
With the signature below, 

So I’ll have to introduce you 
Ere much farther on I go. 

But of one thing I am certain 
And I’ll guarantee the same 
That you’ll have no trouble guessing 
That it’s not a German name. 


There’s a bit of “Mick” about it 
Now that word will make you smile 
But—my name like yours came to me 
From the dear old Emerald Isle. 


Now I live on Ninety-ninth street 
And I love to scribble rhyme 
I have known your little mother 
For a very long, long time. 


So she asked if I would write you 
Several lines of home-made pome 
Just to help to keep you cheerful 
Till you leave for home sweet home. 

And from what we’re hearing lately 
It will not be long they say 
Till you’ll all be swiftly sailing 
For the good old U. S. A. 


All your folks are well and happy 
From the last report I heard 
And it surely gives me pleasure 
For to send this cheery word. 


We are having dandy weather 
Nice and cool and sunny too, 
Makes a person real ambitious 
With no time for feeling blue. 


54 


Gee, I cannot keep from smiling 
As I scribble you this line 
Just to think, a “Mick” on duty 
At the German river Rhine. 


It would sure be more in keeping 
Were you in your khaki duds 
Sitting down “Somewhere in Ireland” 
Eating good cornbeef and spuds. 


And no doubt ’twill be some problem 
When you fellows cross the seas 
All your folks will have to feed you 
Sauerkraut and Limburg cheese. 


But cheer up, the time is coming 
And a dandy feed awaits 
When you reach the greatest country 
That’s our Own United States. 


Now I’ll have to close this letter 
For the day is at an end. 

St. Clair line, that’s me, I’m closing 
Best regards to you I send. 

A Cleveland Dame 
With an Irish name. 

Clara G. Brennan. 


55 



Paul A. Ryan, Cleveland, Ohio, 

U. S. S. “Montana” December 3, 1919. 

(To The Crew of The Montana) 

Dear friends: 

I have written yards of “Poultry” 

Every time I had a chance 
To the soldiers in this country 
And the ones who went to France. 


All the time it took for writing 
I consider time well spent 
And I felt a thrill of pleasure 
As each bit of verse was sent. 

For I know these lads get lonesome 
When so far away from home 
And they welcome lots of letters 
Also, now and then, a poem. 

I have praised them in my writings 
Felt that nothing was too grand 
For these “Gallant” sons of freedom 
Fighting in a foreign land. 

And the hardships they have suffered 
Almost cause the heart to melt 
So I praised them, not to flatter 
’Twas a thing I really felt. 

But there is a guilty feeling 
Slowly creeping over me 
For I’ve never even mentioned 
All the sailors on the sea. 

So I humbly beg your pardon 
’Cause I know it isn’t fair 
For your job is just as risky 
As the soldiers’ “Over there.” 

Now I didn’t quite forget you 

Often thought some verse I’d send 
But, I never had the fortune 
For to have a sailor friend. 


56 



And I couldn’t write to strangers 
’Twouldn’t be the thing to do, 
So I send this explanation. 

And apologize to you. 


And although I’m rather tardy 
There will still be time I think 
For to give our “Noble” Jackies 
Several samples done in ink. 


Now I want to tell you something 
“Every Yankee heart beats true 
For each soldier-boy in khaki 
And each sailor lad in blue.” 


And we never make distinction 
For you all left home and joys 
Just to fight for us, your people 
So we call you all “Our Boys.” 

To the crew of the Montana 
I will send this bit of cheer 
May you have a Happy Christmas 
And a prosperous New Year. 

Your Cleveland friend, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


P. S. 

There are only thirteen verses 
In this poem which I send 
And you might be superstitious 
So I’ll add this on the end. 


57 


Wm. Pasnow, Cleveland, Ohio, 

408th Motor Supply, November 8, 1918. 

A. E. F. 

Dear friend: 

First of all I want to tell you 
That the news has just come out 
That “The war is over” Heavens! 

How we all did laugh and shout. 


When we first received the message 
Well, old Cleveland just turned loose 
And each loyal Yankee person 
Simply acted like a goose. 


But we couldn’t help our feelings 
’Twas the greatest day of all 
For we’ve waited, how we’ve waited 
For those murdering Huns to fall. 


We are proud of all you fellows 
And a glorious day awaits 
All the lads who fought so nobly 
For our own United States. 

We are having dandy weather 
That’s one cheerful thing I’ll say 
It will probably help the doctors 
Drive a lot of ills away. 


When we meet a fellow these days 
We don’t holler “How de do” 

But in whispering tones we murmur 
“Have you had the Spanish Flu ?” 


And it’s ten to one he’s had it 
So we condescend to smile 
But—if he looks sort of greenish 
Gee! we run about a mile. 


For it sure has got us going 
We are all just scared to death 
While we’re riding in the street cars 
We just simply hold our breath. 


58 


So between the “Fleas” in Europe 
And the “Flus” we’ve got at home 
It’s enough to drive a person 
Almost dippy in the dome. 


Now of course I’ve never met you 
So you’ll pardon me I hope 
For the liberty I’m taking 
When I send this awful dope. 


But I’m not much good at knitting 
And I cannot be a nurse 
So, to help our Uncle Sammy 
I just scribble yards of verse. 


All your folks were well and happy 
When I heard the last report 
And I’ll have to close this letter 
For my time is rather short. 

A Yankee Friend 
To the Very End. 

Clara G. Brennan. 


59 


Walter Peters, Cleveland, Ohio, 

U. S. S. Carola, February 15, 1919. 

Care New York Postmaster. 

Dear friend: 

I’ve been asked to write a letter 
By a little girl at home 
To her loving sailor cousin 
Who is sailing on the foam. 


Now of course I’ve never met you 
So you’ll pardon me I hope 
If I seem a bit presumptuous 
In the sending of this dope. 


I am not a regular poet 
Just a sort of “Volunteer.” 

But you’re welcome to my efforts 
If they bring a bit of cheer. 


I was glad to meet your cousin 
And I met her just by chance 
How I listen with attention 

While she tells of her dear France. 


And we’ve formed a lovely friendship 
Like our soldiers in the trench 
Who had everything in common 
With the soldiers of the French. 


And your cousin made a promise 
She would teach me “Parley Vou” 
But, I fear she’ll lose her patience 
For to me it’s all so new. 


Now the things I say of Cleveland 
May not interest you so much 
But, I’ll say, we’re patriotic 
And we’re strong against the Dutch. 


60 


We have had peculiar weather 
Had some snow the other day 
But the sun has been a-shining 
So it’s melted all away. 


To the “Gobs” of the Carola 
I will send my best regards 
And I guess I’d better end this 
Ere it measures yards and yards. 


When you’ve read this awful “poultry” 
Guess you’ll say it’s mighty dry. 

With my kindest wishes to you 
I will have to say goodbye. 

Sincerely, 

Clara G. Brennan. 


61 


(D Angrl at* |l*arr apr*ab gaor rninga a’rr tl|* marlb 
ifot tl|* banner of brntl|*rlg law b* mtfnrlrb 
ICrt it maw in tljr brwzp aVr rarli natian'a bamain 
©Ijat it mag nat br saib tljat aur bags teb in tmin. 


—Clara G. Brennan 














































































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